


and cry your name out to heaven

by captainkilly



Series: form & void [3]
Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, F/M, Missing Scene, a relationship exploration of sorts, gods walk the earth and exact their influence on people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26782711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: Ronald Speirs isn't made for peace. He's made forher.
Relationships: Ronald Speirs/Original Female Character(s)
Series: form & void [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1918033
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	and cry your name out to heaven

**Author's Note:**

> I pretty much set myself the prompt "things you said under the stars and in the grass" and went to work. This one slots between chapters 8 and 9 of _the long bright dark_ , or just after the Eagle's Nest events in the show.

* * *

The space beside him has been empty since the news of Germany’s surrender broke. He turns toward it as if to speak, reaches out with one hand and finds nothing but air at his fingertips, and almost stumbles into nothing at all when he gets so drunk he forgets he is alone. There is a void beside him that feels more threatening than combat ever did.

A dull ache spreads through his chest the longer the absence endures. His lungs constrict with the absence of smoke during the time his hands shake until he curls them into fists. He misses the rush of blood and the sheer demand that comes with it. He misses the fights, the scrapes, the bruises. He cradles his bloodied knuckles, scraped raw from meeting the walls of the Eagle’s Nest, and steps out into the night.

Despite the fact that most of Easy Company is used to his presence by now, drunk soldiers still move out of his way as though lightning’s on their tail. He almost laughs when he spies Hammond’s very obvious attempt to abscond with a familiar red-haired nurse before anyone catches them in the act. For one so prone to subtlety, a drunk Hammond is like an elephant trapped in a very small porcelain cupboard.

He shakes his head as he hears song and laughter down the road he had originally planned to take. He has no desire to run into Talbert, Shifty, and whoever else is with them tonight. Their voices are too raised. Too bright. Too joyous by far. Any other day, he would marvel at the fact that he can distinguish Love’s notes among them now.

Today, it just hurts.

Ron Speirs turns down toward another road. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised to find _her_ at the end of it. He should not be surprised at all to find her in the field, staring up at the sky as if it owes her something.

He hates how full the sight of her makes the air around him feel.

“How is peace treating you?”

She has not turned her head upon his approach, but her question is definitely intended for him alone. He often wonders if she senses him the way he does her, with that swooping sensation lodging itself deep down inside, or if this feeling is something he suffers alone.

“I got drunk,” he informs her, “and I shot champagne bottles off Hitler’s balcony. Then I got drunker and had a debate with Nixon about something I don’t even remember now.” He frowns. “And _then_ I got even drunker when I realized you were still absent.”

“I thought it would be nice to let you celebrate.”

“I wanted you there.”

She does turn her head, then, and he finds his anger dissipates in the face of how serene she looks tonight. Her dark eyes are calm for once. Her hair, though never free of shadows, is far less of a bird’s nest now than it used to be. He is not sure if the white dress that clings to her body is a mere whim or just the way she is now. If the end of conflict on this side of the world affects her at all, he is certain it would show in more than just the small smile she sends him.

“I needed some time,” she says, and there is really no arguing that. “It’s a rather big thing, you know. Peace in these lands. It’s been a while.”

“I missed you,” he insists.

“Peace isn’t your thing, huh?”

He walks up to her and drops down beside her when it’s clear the notes in her voice tilt towards a tease more than they do a potential fight. He shakes his head. Inhales the night air, the scent of grass, and her presence. Closes his eyes as he attempts to commit it to memory.

“You chose me,” he says at last, once he is certain that he is not staring down a vast abyss alone anymore. “I chose you.”

“And so peace is just the absence of everything that has made us.”

He tilts his head in contemplation. Nods as the feeling of falling into nothing slowly begins to dissipate within her presence. He cannot fight the idea that he will have to learn to live without her someday. He cannot accept it, either, and perhaps that’s why he cannot take his eyes off of her tonight.

“Peace be damned,” he whispers, which earns him a broad grin and a gleam of approval in her pitch-black eyes. “Why are you out here in the dark all by yourself?”

“I think I wished to feel small again.”

He peers closely at her when she makes this statement but then does not elaborate further. She is smiling up at the midnight air as if she can see something within it that he misses. These are the moments he questions what her eyes notice that his do not, half-convinced as he is that she perceives this world in a vastly different way. He remembers a time her speech grew slurred and languid as she entangled with him and all the words she spoke were of color and sensation beyond his comprehension.

“You _are_ small,” he reminds her instead. Her favorite form of appearance is at least a head shorter than he, which is another thing he has never comprehended about her. “Why did you wish to feel small again?”

“I think I will grow smaller, now, too. I wished to remind myself of it before it happened. To remind myself that I am more than this drawn-out human conflict, really.” The corners of her mouth briefly lift into a smile. “I like to look at the stars when I feel like this. I am up there, too, you know?”

“Are you really?”

She fixes him with one of her looks. It’s not exasperation, per se, but he would not be surprised if she rolled her eyes at him next. There’s still so much he doesn’t know about her. So much it feels he will never learn, especially not now that her strongest presence in this world is fading.

“I’m not always outright bloodshed between men, Ronald.” Her tone is one of admonishment. He bows his head in response. “I am other things, too, as you well know. I’m everywhere in conflict. Strife. The fights people engage in.” Her voice sounds wry. “Even playground battles, as you learned yourself, have a bit of me in them too. I am in raised voices everywhere.”

“I remember.” It’s not the playground on his mind now. It’s the days of hiding in his closet as the conflict within the walls of the house built to a crescendo. It’s the last fight he had with his too-pregnant too-lovely ex-wife before he crawled back to blood and violence the way he always does. “You’re everywhere where one thing is at odds with another. Where there is no balance and everyone is a little bit to blame.”

She hums a note that speaks of pleasure. Shifts in the grass until she is pressed against him and familiar warmth suffuses his limbs. Her hand finds his bloodied knuckles, just as he knew it would. The press of her lips to the parts of his skin that are scraped most raw does not come as a surprise, either, though he still smiles at the touch. This is a dance he knows. A dance he learned from her piece by piece, year by year, meeting by meeting.

It’s the familiarity of it that makes him lower the last of his guard. He sighs and stretches out beneath the night sky. Draws her down beside him by wrapping a hand around her wrist and squeezing hard enough to show his touch upon her skin. The note of pleasure is lower in her voice this time, akin to a cat’s purr, as she follows him down into the grass.

“I’m up there,” she says again. Insistent. Wheedling. Coaxing. He’s not sure what she wants with him tonight. Knows he’s already past caring when she curls up against him and lets him wrap an arm around her. “Between all those stars, and planets too, and the other things that defy description. I think I have forgotten their names by now. I think they never knew mine. But they don’t always move in unison. There’s discord among them. They crash, they burn, they die.”

“Same as us.”

“It takes them longer, but yes.”

“Slow learners,” he scoffs at the stars he can see. “They need to listen to you more.”

“Like you?”

“If you ever find a star or planet to replace me,” he says, frowning up at the sky, “I doubt it will tolerate you the way I do.”

“Oh, you tolerate me?” Her indignation sounds far too amused to be genuine. The sharp elbow to his side, however, makes him gasp aloud. “You _tolerate_ me, Ronald? That’s it, you know. I am moving away tomorrow and will steal myself one of those stars for company.”

“All right,” he says, because he already knows this is one of those nights that will lead to him waking up with her beside him the next morning. “Whatever you want, ma’am.”

She makes a far too satisfied noise when he bestows the title upon her. He smirks as he presses a short, daring kiss to her brow. Raises an eyebrow when she does not pull away, but wraps her fingers so tight around his dog-tags that he fears she might snap the chain again. It’s one of _those_ nights with her, then, and he cannot say he feels bad about that.

“The crashing, burning, and dying does sound very much like you,” he murmurs into her hair. “I’m sure they would bleed for you if they could.”

Her lips trace the small cut on his jaw where he cut himself during his morning shave. “They just collide, no more than that. It’s a rather violent affair, though. One I treasure as Nature’s gift to me.” She sounds vaguely proud of it as he stares at the specks of light overhead and wonders how many of them will fall together the way he does with her. “Sometimes, War is..” She catches herself. Laughs and corrects her words. “Sometimes _I_ am.. merely the collision of two celestial bodies.”

“You are just collision itself. Celestial,” he acknowledges, “and human.”

“And divine.”

He rolls his eyes. “Celestial, human, divine. You are in all our bodies. Between them, too.” He tugs at the shadows that dance through her hair. Amends his last words. “Between them maybe most of all.”

“What is between us now, honey?”

“Nothing,” he teases back, pulling at shadows until her head tilts back and her throat goes bare, “and everything.”

“I will miss you most,” is the admission her surrender makes to him tonight.

He pretends he does not hear her words as his teeth scrape patterns of longing into her skin and his hands press down in yearning. He cannot hide the shaky breath that escapes him before his lips meet lips that would speak such hurt and horror to him. He cannot stop his grip from becoming a vice around her limbs any more than he can stop the sun from rising.

It’s the first time her yielding to him has wounded him. It cuts him to the bone with every move that speaks of her voluntary submission to the rage that trembles through his body. He wishes he had tears left to weep, but all he is good for are touches that bruise and kisses that burn. She welcomes whatever pain he shares with her. Wraps her arms around him and lays claim to the very air he breathes. He tries to drown out the rest. Tries to bury himself with her embrace until this collision is all that remains of how much he loves her.

“Ronald,” she sings into the violence they will always inflict upon one another, “I will miss you most of all.”


End file.
